Stigma

Chapter 1

James

I don't know why I come to places like this. I think I must have some deep, fucked up, masochistic part of me that longs to be humiliated. I'm feeling a little humiliated right now, and I'm not even the one half naked and dancing on the bar top. I'm not even here with a friend. I just got off work and decided to do the most desperate thing ever and go to a strip club.

If I'm being generous with myself, which I rarely am, this isn't really a strip club. These guys aren't strippers, they're Gogo dancers. They keep some clothes on. Like the guy closest to me is wearing a pair of leather shorts and black platform boots. He's cute, in a delicate, easily broken way. I walk past him and around the other side of the bar, where I forget all about feeling humiliated because I'm pretty sure I've just seen the best looking man in the world. Or, at least in New York.

He's not wearing anything flashy or leather or spandex, just a pair of well-fitting blue jeans with intentional looking holes in the thighs and knees that allow flashes of bronzed skin to be seen. He's barefoot and shirtless, and he's got abs like I've never seen in person. Sculpted and ridged with that deep V-cut that I'm always admiring in porn and magazines. My eyes slide up his chest, to his throat, which is long and just as perfect as the rest of him. A thin sheen of sweat covers him so he shines under the lights, every movement picking up the blue and pink and green, lighting him up like a billboard or a rainbow or a god. My eyes make it up to his face, and Jesus wept, I think I'm actually weak at the knees. Square jawed, with cheekbones that could cut you. Deep set blue eyes framed by pale lashes and slightly darker eyebrows. Blonde hair, curled with sweat and long enough to be swoopy without being obnoxious. Dear, God.

I must've been staring at him hard enough for him to feel it, because he flicks his gaze downward, and locks eyes with me. I think I'm not breathing. (It's in and then out, right? I've been doing it for twenty-six years, I should be able to do it now. In and then out. Repeat.) The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he steps to the end of the bar. I move closer to him without consciously making the decision to do so, and he drops to his knees. He's still dancing, still moving like something fluid and liquid, still catching the light on his damp skin. He opens his mouth like maybe he's going to say something, but I don't think these guys are supposed to talk, and the last thing I want is for him to get in some kind of trouble and get pulled off the bar, so I shake my head at him, and move even closer. Close enough that I could lick him. That's not actually allowed either, but his chest is at my eye level and there's a single drop of sweat sliding down between his pectoral muscles and I want to know what it would taste like, feel like, on my tongue.

I put my hands on the bar, on either side of him, and look up into his face. He looks back in this intense, soul deep way that makes me feel tingly and warm all over. I reach into my pocket without looking away from him, and pull out the twenty dollar bill that I know is in there. I didn't bring a lot of cash with me because I wasn't actually planning on staying long and I wasn't actually planning on getting close enough to any of these guys to feel compelled to tip them. I slip the bill into the waistband of his jeans, and he covers my hand with his before I pull away.

Fuck. (In and then out.) He holds my gaze for another blissful minute before gracefully getting back to his feet. I force myself to walk away from him, because standing there and staring at him isn't making me feel any less like an idiot for being here. It's sort of making me feel worse. And also a little light headed. Plus, I've just given him all of my cash.

I manage to find a section of the bar where there isn't someone dancing on it and order a vodka soda. From this angle, I can't see the guy I was just drooling over, which is honestly for the best. He was making me feel things I'm pretty sure I'm not ready to feel. Things that are a lot more complicated than just a desire to stick my dick in him. I lean against the bar and watch some of the other dancers. All of them are ripped and chiseled in a way that I'm certain I could never achieve no matter how much time I spent at the gym. All of them are attractive, but none of the rest of them are take my-breath-away-weaken-my-knees-make-me-want-to-eat-them attractive.